


The Ballad of Annie and Alex

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: Canadian 6 Degrees, Getting Married In Buffalo Jump (1990)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, F/M, POV Female Character, POV Third Person Limited, Teenagers, Unplanned Pregnancy, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-27
Updated: 2012-07-27
Packaged: 2017-11-10 19:48:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex and Annie's love story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ballad of Annie and Alex

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luzula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luzula/gifts).



> Written for luzula, for the 2012 C6D Midsummer gift exchange.
> 
> Thanks to Sock_Marionette for beta!
> 
> Author note: On the use of the word “Indian” – it’s the word Annie uses to describe herself (speaking to Sophie) in the movie, and my impression is that there are at least some Native American/First Nations subcultures that do routinely use “Indian” to describe themselves, so I’ve gone with this usage. It is not intended to be pejorative, except in the sense that it would presumably have been a loaded word in Alberta in the 1970s. However, I am in no way an expert on First Nations cultures or this particular geographic region.

 

“Hey, Annie!  Annie Malone!”

 

On the front steps of the high school, Annie stops and turns her head to see a boy loping up to her.  Tall—taller than most of the boys her age, much taller than Annie herself—with wavy dark hair falling into his eyes.  It’s Alex with the long unpronounceable last name who sits at the back of math class and never says anything, but never fools around or causes trouble, either.  Beautiful Alex, with his man’s height and his rancher’s muscles and those blue eyes. . . 

 

If she’s ever spoken two words to him, she doesn’t remember it.  But here he is, smiling at her kind of crooked, asking if she wants to go out for a milkshake with him.

 

She’s so surprised she blurts out the first thing that comes into her head, which is, “Why are you asking me?”

 

“’Cause you’re the prettiest girl in school,” he says with an oddly shy grin.

 

“You’re a liar,” she tells him, and walks away.

 

 

                                    *                                    *                        *

 

 

Two days later, he catches her in the hallway on the way out of math class.

 

“You are, so, pretty,” he says.  “You’re pretty like a quarterhorse.”

 

He’s not talking loud, but he’s not talking soft enough, either.  A couple of passing boys hear him and snort to show their amused scorn.  Alex’s cheeks flush pink, but he flips them off casually, almost good-naturedly.  The boys laugh and keep walking.  Alex stoops a little so his mouth is close to her ear, dropping his voice to a soft rumble that sends shivers through her.

 

“You’re fine and strong and. . .wild.  Beautiful.”

 

He’s a fine one to talk, one of the best-looking boys in school.  The combination of his muscular body and his soft face with those long eyelashes is deadly.  Half the girls have crushes on him, but he doesn’t play around.  Doesn’t date much, or maybe at all.  Not that she’s paid any special attention to what Alex does, but girls do talk.

 

But she knows about handsome, popular white boys and how they treat girls, especially Indian girls who don’t have a pack of friends looking after them and who aren’t so pretty that they can pick and choose.  Never mind his sweet talk.  She knows what she looks like and where she ranks.

 

So she swallows down the shivers and looks right into those deep blue eyes and says, “You want a horse, go buy one, pretty boy.”

 

But it’s damn hard not to look back over her shoulder at him, this time.

 

 

                                    *                                    *                        *

 

 

More than a week goes by.  She’s almost decided that she scared him off, except that a couple of times, when she comes into math class and catches sight of him sitting there at the back of the room, he flashes her a smile or lifts up a finger like he’s tipping his invisible hat to her.

 

It’s a Sunday afternoon and she’s not thinking about school or boys; she’s out weeding the front garden when the sound of hooves in the road makes her look up.  It’s Alex, and oh, if he’s good-looking on the ground, he’s seriously beautiful on a horse.  He rides with easy grace, like he and the horse are one joyful creature. 

 

He reins the horse in a few feet from the fence and smiles down at her.

 

“I’m not looking for a horse,” he says.  “But maybe you’d like to come for a ride with me?”

 

 _I’d like to ride you bareback, pretty boy_ , she thinks, then has to bite her tongue to keep from giggling at her own outrageous thoughts _._   She glances over her shoulder.  Her mother’s inside, but it’s only a matter of time before she looks out the window.

 

“Are you crazy?  I can’t just jump on a horse with you and ride away.  My father would knock you silly.”

 

Alex frowns and glances over her head at the house. 

 

“I’m not—I’m sorry,” he says.  “I didn’t think. . .”  He shrugs apologetically.

 

“You don’t think much, do you?”

 

He takes off his hat and scratches his head, rocking in the saddle as the horse sidles a little.

 

“You want me to leave you alone, Annie?”

 

“No, I—”

 

One corner of his mouth creeps upwards in a slow half-smile.  Her face gets hot, but it’s too late to take it back now, so she might as well go on.

 

“I just wish you’d use some common sense.”

 

“Okay.”  He nods thoughtfully, but doesn’t say anything for a long while, just keeps looking at her.  She starts wondering if he’s maybe slow, or has even less experience with girls than she thought.  Or maybe he’s waiting for her.  Maybe he thinks it’s her turn to make a move.  She kind of likes that idea.

 

“I have to finish this,” she says.  “After that, I can probably get my mother to let me drive down to the swimming hole.”  She has her probationary license, but like most kids around Buffalo Jump, she’s been driving a lot longer than she’s had the piece of paper.  Her mother will let her take the pickup, since her father isn’t using it today.

 

“You can wait for me there,” she finishes.

 

“Okay,” says Alex again, his half-smile growing into a full one.

 

And he does wait for her.  When she gets to the swimming hole two or three hours later, his horse is tethered to a sapling, nibbling weeds, and Alex is lying among the wildflowers near the bank.  She slams the door of the pickup; his head comes up at the sound.  Even at a distance, she can see his grin light up his face as he rolls to his feet.  It lights her up inside, too, with an intensity that catches her by surprise.  She has to stand clutching the side of the truck for several moments until she can get her breath under control.

 

This was a stupid place to suggest; there’s only one thing he can think she meant by it.  And maybe she did mean that—her body sure as hell wants it—but dumb, dumb, dumb girl, to offer herself to a boy so easily, and not just a boy, but a white boy she doesn’t even know.  If she were smart she’d get back in the truck and go.

 

But Alex is coming through the yellow and purple flowers to her, and the smile on his face is so damn _tender_ , like she’s some kind of precious, delicate gift.  Like he thinks she’s the one doing him a favor by being here.  He leans on the side of the truck, looking over its bed at her, and she just can’t feel scared.  He’s not looking at her like prey.  He just looks happy to see her.

 

They don’t do anything, not even swim.  They just sit together and look at the water.  Alex picks flowers and sticks them in Annie’s mess of hair.  They talk—actually, mostly Alex asks Annie questions and she talks, and he listens with this look on his face like he could do it forever.  He lays his head in her lap, and she strokes his sun-warmed hair.

 

When the sun says it’s getting to be time for suppertime chores, he gives her a hand up and keeps holding her hand as they walk over to the horse.

 

“Can I give you a ride one day?” he asks, and part of her wants to slap him silly because there’s no way he doesn’t know what that sounds like, but he sure _sounds_ like he really isn’t thinking about anything besides the two of them on horseback with his arms around her waist.

 

But she knows what she’s thinking when she tells him, “Yes.”

 

 

                        *                                    *                                    *

 

 

Alex has a mouth to dream about, and she does.

 

His kisses are just as sweet as she imagined.  They taste like his funny shy/surprised laughter.  They taste like her name when he whispers it in a voice that comes low from his chest.

 

His hands are big and broad, with squared-off fingers.  They can swing a sledgehammer or gentle a horse or fix an engine.  She drives herself just about crazy, dreaming about what those hands could do to her body.  Up in her room, John Denver playing on the radio—and she hates “Annie’s Song,” it’s dumb and sappy and it reminds her too much of the back seat of Stephen’s Pinto, but she closes her eyes and shivers, thinking of Alex’s hands and his sweet mouth and the rest of him.  _Come fill me up again._

 

But he doesn’t hardly touch her.  His arm around her waist, his fingers on her cheek, his hand clasping hers.  Like they were twelve year olds just discovering that the other sex isn’t the most disgusting thing on Earth after all.

 

He wants her, though.  She knows it by the hot glances he flicks her way from under his long eyelashes.  She knows it by the way he keeps his hands in pockets, sometimes.

 

She doesn’t know what he’s waiting for.  She’s not sure whether she wants him to stop waiting.

 

 

                        *                                    *                                    *

 

 

“Come get something to eat with me, Annie.”

 

“People will see us.”

 

“Yeah,” he says, and doesn’t say anything else.

 

“You want people talking about us?”

 

“Not especially.  I just want to eat a hamburger with you.  Doesn’t matter what they say.”

 

It does matter; she doesn’t know if he really thinks it doesn’t, or if he’s just being stubborn.  Either way, he’s hard to resist.  And what girl wouldn’t want to be seen in public with Alex?

 

“My brother will beat you up,” she says.

 

“I don’t want to make trouble for you,” he responds.  She knows what he’s asking; he’s not as innocent as he comes across sometimes.

 

“My father won’t like it, but he won’t hit me.  He doesn’t do like that.  My brother, neither.  You’re the one who better watch out.”

 

Alex winces a little at her frankness, but he relaxes, too.

 

“Didn’t mean only with your family,” he says.  “If you don’t want people to know, if that would be easier. . .”

 

It would be easier, but put like that, it’s a challenge, and Annie’s not one to walk away from a challenge.  And she made up her mind not to be scared by what people think of her, long before Alex came along.

 

“Will you come, then?”

 

“Will you buy me a milkshake?”

 

His smile just about knocks her off her feet.

 

“Yeah,” he says.

 

 

                                    *                                    *                                    *

 

 

Being Alex-and-Annie changes everything at school and in town.  The girls are jealous of her—some of them in a nice way, some of them in a mean way—but they mostly leave her alone, and some of them even start giving her the time of day when they didn’t before.  The boys respect her more, or maybe they just don’t want to do anything that might mean tangling with Alex.  There are adults who look at them coldly when they pass Alex and Annie in the street or in the diner or at the movie theatre – but not as many as Annie would have expected.

 

Alex says it’s because his parents are Ukrainian.  The other white folks consider him not-quite-white.

 

“Beneath them, anyway.  If I went and dated Mary Carter, you bet there’d be a lot more people glaring at me.”

 

Which is maybe true, but Annie knows Alex is white enough when the lines are drawn for real.

 

Tell the truth, she doesn’t care what the assholes think.  She even kind of likes it when people look at them funny or drop barely-hidden insults.  She’s got a mouth on her, and she’s not afraid to use it.  It feels good to stare into some snob’s eyes with her feet planted and her shoulders squared off, letting her body send the message: _You mess with me, I’ll flatten you._   Usually they back off quick when she does that.

 

The first time someone actually says something to them, they’re just walking down Main Street holding hands.  Old Mrs. Johanson stops Annie to ask after her mother, but really to nail Annie down so she can ask _how she’s doing_ and _if there’s anything she needs_ and crap like that, like she’s some kind of social worker or missionary or something, instead of just a nasty old busy-body.  Annie glowers and doesn’t say a word, and Mrs. J. starts getting frustrated and flustered and shrill, until finally she rounds on Alex and tells him, “And you ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

 

Alex doesn’t say anything, but Annie gets between him and Mrs. Johanson, gets right up into Mrs. J.’s face, baring her teeth like an angry dog.  The old bat actually gasps and jumps back—Annie’s not sure if Mrs. J. honestly thinks Annie might hit her, or if she just doesn’t want Annie touching her, but either way, it drives her away down Main Street, muttering sourly.

 

Alex still hasn’t said anything.  Annie glances up at him with the scowl still on her face, ready to snap at him if he gets mad, or laughs (she’s not sure which would be worse).  But he’s just looking at her with this little crinkle between his eyebrows, not pissed, not exactly puzzled; thinking, maybe.  The crinkle gets a little deeper when he sees her glaring at him, then eases up again.

 

“I like tough better than pretty,” he says, fixing her with his solemn gaze.

 

Annie’s face gets hot, but she doesn’t drop her eyes, even though he starts to smile at her blush.

 

“You’re pretty enough for both of us,” she says, teasing, but he looks away, not blushing and not smiling any more, either.

 

 

                                    *                                    *                                    *

 

 

They’re Alex-and-Annie for two weeks before the night her brother, Jimmy, comes home for dinner with a black eye and bruised knuckles that he insists he got helping Mr. Moreau break a colt.  Mother scolds and Father goes scary-cold, but neither of them can get Jimmy to admit he was fighting, or who, or why. 

 

Annie grabs Jimmy on the way out to evening chores, and she doesn’t even have to ask; he hisses at her, “You keep your mouth shut or I’ll tell them why I had to fight Alex Breznyachuk, and you know damn well who’d be in worse trouble then.”

 

“You got no right,” she snaps back.  “Who I see is none of your business, so just keep out of it.”

 

“It’s my job to look out for you,” he says.  “Way you run around, are you _trying_ to get yourself hurt?”

 

“He’s not going to hurt me, and anyway, he’s none of your business.  You want to fight someone about it, you can fight me.”

 

Jimmy just gives her a disgusted look.  “Don’t be stupid.”

 

Next day, Alex turns up at school with his face so messed up that the whole place is buzzing about it before Annie even lays eyes on him.  When he makes his way to her table at lunch, she can’t keep down a gasp at how bad he looks; he’s moving careful, too, like he’s bruised under his clothes.  It feels like the whole school’s got their eyes on him as he crosses the room to her, but Alex doesn’t look around him. 

 

He sets his food down and lowers himself into a seat.  His mouth is cut up so bad she doesn’t see how he’s going to manage to eat anything.  He gives her a smile, but it turns into a wince.

 

“Don’t worry,” he says.  “It’s not bad; just colorful is all.”

 

“What the hell happened?” she hisses.  “He push you off of something?”  Which is maybe not a nice thing to say, but Alex is a big, strong guy, and she can’t figure how her brother got off so lightly if they were fighting fair.

 

“Your brother?  Nah.  He threw a couple punches, I threw a couple.  Got him down, told him we could smash each other up but it wasn’t going to change anything.  Pissed him off, but he must’ve figured I meant it, so he left.”  The swollen lips make his words kind of mushy-sounding, but if it hurts to talk, Alex isn’t letting it slow him down.

 

“Then how--?”

 

He shrugs.  “ _My_ brother didn’t like that I got beat up over a. . .well, you.  My folks are upset enough about me seeing you already, I guess he thought this just proved that I’m. . .being irresponsible, going bad, whatever.  Or maybe he figured if he beat me up, I wouldn’t have to explain to Dad where I got the bruises.  Maybe he thought he was doing me a favor.”

 

“Probably not,” she says.

 

“Yeah.”  He pokes at his food, but seems to decide it isn’t worth the bother of trying to eat it.

 

Annie stands up.  “Let’s go.”

 

“What?”

 

She holds out her hand.  “I don’t want to be here right now.  Come on.”

 

He puts his hand in hers and lets her lead him out of the lunchroom, down the hall and right out the front door.  They’re not sneaking, just cutting class right out in the open, but no one stops them.

 

In one of the deserted shanties that dot the landscape all through these parts, Annie pulls Alex’s clothes off him, one piece at a time.  He says nothing, but his eyes never leave her face while she’s doing it.  Along with the assortment of nicks and dings that come from working on a farm, there’s a big purple bruise on his ribs.

 

She runs her fingers carefully around the ring of unmarked skin that encloses the bruise.  Alex hisses a breath.  She freezes, looking into his eyes.

 

“Sorry,” she whispers.

 

But he takes her hand so gently in his and lays her palm softly over the darkened skin.

 

“It really doesn’t matter,” he says.

 

“They can’t have you.”  She blinks back tears; she’s not going to cry now, no she’s not.

 

“They don’t,” he says softly, touching her cheek with the fingertips of his free hand.  “You do.”

 

“Okay, then.”  She eases him down on his back and stands straddling him.  Takes off her shoes, shirt, bra, skirt, panties.  Alex watching her, dead silent, hands at his sides, chest heaving like he’s just run a mile.  She looks down at his beautiful, beautiful body, spread out between her legs, just waiting.

 

“Show me,” she whispers, sinking to her knees.  She lays the softest, gentlest kiss she can on his torn-up lips.  “Show me that you’re mine.”

 

“Okay,” he murmurs in her ear, his voice shaking.

 

And he does.  And she does.

 

 

                        *                                    *                                    *

 

 

Sex with Alex is better than sunsets, or that feeling when a horse’s muscles bunch under her and she and the horse are jumping-flying together, or the first drag of a cigarette when she’s been waiting all day to light up. 

 

It’s not that he knows what he’s doing, really; Annie knows better, and it’s not like she’s exactly an expert.  But he knows how to watch and listen and learn, and his hands are just as clever and strong and gentle as she knew they’d be.  Sometimes he touches her like she’s made of glass.  Sometimes—if she pushes and wrestles and goads him into it—he tosses her down and pins her, and she can struggle with all her might, but she can’t break out of his control. 

 

(She goes a time or two to the rodeo to watch Alex bulldog, and he wrestles the steer just like he does her, neat and quick, like it’s no work at all.  Stands up barely breathing hard.  Annie’s the one who’s out of breath, when he looks up from the ring and grins at her.)

 

Sometimes he stretches out on his back, arms wide, body still, offering himself to her.  He likes it when she rides him; when she marks him with her nails and teeth; when she trails her tongue over every part of him.  Annie knows what boys think of girls who like to be on top, girls who like sex too much. . .but Alex never goes as wild as when he’s laid out under her. 

 

It quickly becomes a game they play, figuring out places to do it.  The land around is flat but big enough to get lost in, full of derelict shanties and tall grass, and the back of a pickup isn’t too bad when they can cover the metal with a blanket or two.  But they don’t always have time to get lost.  Time to touch each other’s naked bodies is stolen between school and chores, between movies and burgers and coming home late enough to piss off the folks. 

 

They discover that the basement windows of the public library can be pried open from the outside.  It’s dusty and mildewy and full of boxes of unread books, but no one ever goes down there.

 

They sneak into the janitor’s closet at school one afternoon after dismissal and do it up against the wall in the dark, broom handles falling around their heads, hands over each other’s mouths to smother the noise. 

 

In the back row of the movie theatre watching some dumb love story, Annie unzips Alex’s fly.  He startles and pushes her hands away, but she presses up against him with kisses and fingers teasing their way between his shirt-buttons and then downwards again, until all he can do is clutch the arms of the seat and stare at the screen, breathing fast and shallow through parted lips.

 

On the sidewalk, afterwards, Alex is so quiet she thinks maybe she’s pushed it too far this time.  He holds her hand as he walks her to the truck (they come and go separately, always, so this is as close as he ever gets to taking her home).  But the goodnight kiss he gives her is softer and shyer than it’s been since the beginning.

 

She should have remembered that Alex takes a while to think things over.  She should have trusted the streak of fire she’s seen peek out from underneath those mild manners.  Come to find out, Alex likes a challenge just as much as Annie does.

 

Up in the loft of his parents’ barn, they snuggle down in the loose hay.  It gets down their clothes and into their hair and they’ll both be red and itching come evening, but that doesn’t matter when Annie’s got the salt of Alex’s sweat on her tongue and his weight pressing her down into the sweet warm nest of hay.  Alex moves on top of her and inside her, and when she opens her eyes and sees his wild, wide grin, she’s torn between laughing and crying.

 

“Sasha!” calls a man’s voice from below.  Annie gasps; Alex puts his hand over her mouth and they roll back further into the dark and the hay, still wrapped in each other’s arms.

 

“Sasha!”  Alex’s father calls again, then adds a string of words Annie can’t make out—Ukrainian, or whatever language those people talk.

 

“I’m just—I’ll see to it, Dad,” Alex yells back in English.  “I’ll take care of it, don’t worry.”

 

“The day will not last,” says Alex’s Dad, in English now, but with an accent so think he almost sounds like he’s still speaking Ukrainian.  “The horses do not care if you are sleepy.  Neither does the back field.”

 

“It’s Sunday, Dad,” Alex protests.

 

“The horses also do not care what day of the week it is.  Now hurry, Sasha.”

 

“I’ll get them fed and meet you out there,” says Alex.  His father grunts in what must be grudging agreement; then Annie can hear his faint footsteps and the swing of the barn door.

 

“I don’t know why he took it into his head—” Alex begins, but Annie shuts him up with a kiss.

 

“Get your clothes on and get down to those horses,” she says, grinning and swatting him on the behind.  “Before he comes back to see what’s taking you so long.”

 

As he pulls on his jeans and shirt, Annie plucks as much of the hay from his shaggy hair as she can.

 

“You’re a mess, _Sasha_ ,” she says.

 

“So are you.”  He pulls her hands down and covers her palms with kisses.

 

“Why does he call you that?” Annie asks him.

 

“It’s my name.  I mean, it’s short for Alexander.  My whole family calls me Sasha, but Canadians think it’s a girl’s name, so when I started school, I switched to Alex pretty quick.”

 

“Sasha,” she whispers, cradling his face between her two hands.  She kisses him on the forehead, like her mother used to kiss her at bedtime when she was little.  He bows his head until his forehead rests against her shoulder.  She can feel him shivering a little, though it’s hot as hell in the hayloft.

 

“My Sasha,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around him.  He hugs her close and sighs into her shoulder.

 

After that day, she takes to calling him “Sasha” now and then, when she’s feeling most tender.  It makes him blush and duck his head but it always makes him smile.

 

 

                                    *                                    *                                    *

 

 

“The ranch is for my oldest brother,” says Alex drowsily. 

 

They’re lying in the sun, drying off after swimming, Annie’s head pillowed on Alex’s chest.  Heat of a bright, still July afternoon pressing them down into the grass; drone of bees in the flowers all around.

 

“I could keep working there, but I don’t want to just be a ranch hand for the rest of my life.  And working for my family—I mean, I love them, but. . .I stay, I know exactly what I’m going to be forever.  The middle brother, the one who works hard and does what needs to be done and never. . .needs to have any dreams of his own.”

 

“You got dreams?” Annie murmurs, mostly just to get him to keep that soft rumble going against her ear.

 

“Well. . .”  Seems like there’s a whole universe ready to spring out of that one drawled word.  Alex’s chest expands with his breath, rocking Annie’s head.

 

“I’ve thought about making my living riding rodeos.  I’ve won prizes.  But a man can’t wrestle steer for a lifetime.  Not fair to his family, either, risking his neck all the time and not even being able to count on the cash regular.

 

“Thought about travelling, too.  Get out of here, find someplace else to be.  Or just see what other parts are like.  Don’t think I’d like living in a city, but it might be something, to see Montréal, or New York, or Paris.  Just to visit, you know?  Think you’d like to see the world?”

 

“Why not?” she says.  “Long as we’re dreaming, you could build us a boat and we could sail around the world.”

 

“Absolutely.  Go to the Caribbean, swim in the ocean.  See all that ancient Greek stone stuff Mr. Duschene’s always blabbering about.  And then maybe we’ll find an island that everyone’s forgotten about for hundreds of years, with a buried pirate treasure.  Bring home a couple of handfuls of gold, buy us a nice piece of land and some cattle—hell, or horses, since capital won’t be a problem.  What do you think, Annie, should we raise us some quarterhorses?

 

“Hm. . .”  She smiles sleepily, lulled by the warm sun and Alex’s hand stroking her hair and his dreamy voice.  “You were made for horses.  Like ‘em better than girls, right?”

 

He chuckles softly, sounding half-asleep himself.  “I like girls who like horses.  I’d like to give you horses. . .raise ponies with you. . .Don’t have that kind of money though.  Even if my dad wanted to help out, we’ll never afford a horse operation. . .You mind cattle too much?”

 

Annie’s not sure if he’s still spinning stories; he sounds serious.  Her heart flutters at the thought of her and Alex, grown up and married with a place of their own, with no one to look cross-eyed at them or tell them what to do, cattle and chores and eating dinner together and lying in each other’s arms every night in their own bed. . .

 

If she were more awake, she’d have to worry about whether he really means it.  She’d have to answer Alex’s question, and know what her answer meant.  It’s easier—safer—to just keep her eyes closed and let Alex’s breathing rock her the rest of the way to sleep, with the curtains of their someday kitchen window blowing in the sunshine behind her eyelids.

 

 

                                    *                                    *                                    *

 

 

“That boy is not good for you,” her mother tells her.  “Life will bring trouble enough, you don’t need to chase after it.”

 

“Alex won’t hurt me,” Annie protests.  “He’s not like Stephen.”  (Or Pete, or Tom, but Annie never actually _dated_ them and her mom doesn’t know about them, or at least, Annie hopes not.)  “Alex is sweet to me.”

 

“He’s too good-looking.”  Her mother shakes her head.  “He will hurt you.  Whether he means to or not.  Choose a strong man, but leave the handsome ones alone.”

 

“Alex is _good_ ,” says Annie.  She cringes at the way she sounds, like she’s talking about a _dog_.  But she needs to make her mother understand.  “He’s kind, and gentle, and strong.  He loves horses, they go gentle for him.  If you saw how he handles them, you’d see there’s nothing mean in him.”

 

“Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean he won’t hurt you.”

 

“He _loves_ me.”

 

Her mother shakes her head sadly, stroking Annie’s wrist.  “You’ll find out that that doesn’t make as much difference as you want it to.”

 

 

                        *                                    *                                    *

 

 

In some ways, Alex is braver than she is.

 

“I love you, Annie.” 

 

“ ‘Cause I’m pretty?” she teases. 

 

A hint of smile tugs at the corners of his solemn mouth. 

 

“No.  ‘Cause you’re tough, and clever and. . .no, it’s not ‘cause of anything.  Just ‘cause you’re you.  You make me. . .I don’t have any words for you.”  He cups her face in his big, warm hands and just looks into her eyes, like that’s _easy_ , like he’s not scared by whatever it is he sees there.

 

And usually Annie’s the one with the words, but not this time, and she doesn’t have Alex’s kind of courage, either, so she buries her fingers in his hair and pulls him forward into a kiss that leads on to other things.  She lays him out on his back and rides him until he comes apart at the seams.

 

Afterwards, she snuggles close and whispers, “Sasha,” in his ear, hoping he’ll somehow hear everything she doesn’t know how to say. 

 

 

                    *                                    *                                    *

 

 

Alex slips a quarter into the booth-side juke box and “Brown Eyed Girl” starts playing.  He grins at her and tries to sing along, although he really can’t sing: he knows the words and the rhythm, but it’s like he’s trying to sing it all on one note.  When the waitress brings their order, he shuts up and gets a little pink across his cheeks, but he smiles politely up at her like there’s absolutely nothing wrong with him singing love songs to Annie Malone in public.

 

The waitress doesn’t care, anyway.  It’s that Sophie Ware, one of the seniors who graduated this year, the one who’s supposed to be some kind of piano star, and is going off to college in Toronto or somewhere come September, and always looks like she’s got much more _important_ things on her mind than anything that might be going on around her.  She smiles automatically, impartially, at Alex and Annie as she slides their food onto the counter.

 

Annie’s been feeling a little off her feed all day, so she’d only ordered a milkshake, but even that doesn’t seem appealing any more.  The smell of Alex’s meatloaf sandwich turns her stomach; suddenly, the thought of watching him put it into his mouth is too disgusting to contemplate.  She slides out of the booth and hurries to the bathroom, but it’s right next to the kitchen with its atmosphere of grease and meat and coffee.  Annie just barely manages to lock herself in a stall before she pukes.

 

It doesn’t really make her feel better, either.  She stays there on her knees in the stall, just resting the back of her head against the door with her eyes closed, waiting for the queasiness to pass off.  She doesn’t throw up again, but her stomach is still churning when someone knocks on the stall door.

 

“You okay?” says a girl’s voice.  Annie’s not sure how long she’s been in here, but it must have been long enough for Alex to get worried and send one of the waitresses in after her.

 

“Yeah, just a second.”  Annie levers herself to her feet and flushes the toilet again, even though it’s empty now, then comes out of the stall.

 

Sophie’s waiting for her by the sinks.

 

“You don’t look so good,” she says, concerned.  “You feeling sick?”

 

“Yeah.  Don’t worry, it’s not the food, I didn’t even eat anything.  I’ve been feeling kind of lousy all day, I must be coming down with something.”

 

“That sucks, I’m sorry,” says Sophie.  “You want me to call your folks or anything?”

 

“No, I’ll be fine,” Annie tells her.  She rinses her mouth and washes her face.  Sophie follows her, kind of keeping an eye on her, like maybe she’s going to keel over between the bathroom and the booth where Alex is waiting.

 

Alex drives Annie home.  It means leaving her parents’ truck in town, which means someone will have to figure out how to pick it up later, but Annie’s feeling too miserable to care about that right now.  She pillows her head against her arm on the truck door and lets the rush of wind from the window cool her sweaty face. 

 

 

                                    *                                    *                                    *

 

 

Alex calls her up the next day to check if she’s feeling better, which she is, so he doesn’t seem to think any more about it.  But Alex is a boy, and people do get sick sometimes, so why would he?  Annie knows enough to worry, but it happened at night, not in the morning, and people really do get sick sometimes.  But it seems like just having the thought, even silent in her own head, is enough to make it come true, because then she does start waking up sick to her stomach.  She counts back and can’t remember when she got her last period, and she doesn’t have to ask anyone to know that means trouble.

 

 

                                    *                                    *                                    *

 

 

She wonders if people can tell by looking at her.  She doesn’t look any different in the mirror, but she feels different.  Not that she can feel anything inside her body, apart from tired and queasy.  But she’s walking around with a secret inside her, and it’s hard to believe it doesn’t show.  She wonders if everyone’s secrets are so invisible on the outside.

 

But this secret is the kind that advertizes itself on your body sooner or later.  She starts wearing her shirts untucked, and that hides a lot, even when the waist of her jeans starts to bite into her belly.  Annie’s plump to begin with, so a little extra weight doesn’t look like much on her.

 

But Alex would notice.  His hands know what her curves feel like; he’s measured every inch of her with fingers and tongue; his eyes have memorized her.  If she took off her clothes for him, he’d notice how her belly is getting round and her breasts are crowding out of her bra.  And he may be a boy, but he’s not entirely stupid.

 

So she works as hard to keep them from finding opportunities to be naked together as she used to work to make those opportunities.  She meets him in the diner, or the movie theatre.  She makes out with him in the cab of her father’s pickup, or his, where there isn’t room to undress.  She makes excuses: _my mother’s expecting me home; I’m tired; someone might see us._   After the first couple of times she puts him off, he doesn’t put up a fight.  Doesn’t ask why, doesn’t say anything at all.

 

But just because Alex is quiet, that doesn’t mean he’s not thinking.  Maybe she forgot that.

 

They pull up in the parking lot of Jerry’s pub, where the staff lets underage kids in for the dancing, as long as they don’t do anything too dumb.  Alex shuts off the engine but he doesn’t lay a hand on the door, just looks over at her.  The smartest thing she could do right now is jump out her own door and make for the crowd inside, but she’s never been able to run from Alex’s gaze.

 

“Are you mad at me?” he asks quietly.

 

“No,” she says.

 

He nods slowly like that requires deep, careful thought.

 

“Would you tell me if you were?”

 

“I promise, you’d know.”  It doesn’t come out as fierce as she’d like.

 

“Okay,” he says in that way that means it isn’t okay but he doesn’t know what to do with it, or doesn’t want to fight, or maybe just doesn’t have any words.  And she thinks maybe that’s the end of it, but he still doesn’t make a move.

 

It feels like forever later when Alex finally asks, “Are you tired of me?” 

 

 _Yes_ would be a lie, but _No_ would be false in a totally different way, because it would be a promise that everything’s all right, nothing’s changed, and she can’t lie to Alex like that.  And maybe she should tell him the real truth, but if she does, it’s the end of everything, no going back, and she just wants to close her eyes stay here in the summertime a little longer.

 

So she doesn’t say anything at all, for way too long, until Alex finally gives a little sad-eyed nod, and says, “Okay,” again.

 

And she can’t stand to leave him looking like that.  She can’t stand to have him start up the engine and drive her back to her own parents’ truck and leave her to drive herself home.  Can’t let it end like that, even though maybe it would be the smart thing to do.

 

So she reaches over and lays her hand on his, before he can go to move it to the ignition.

 

“Let’s go in and dance,” she says.

 

His face lights up with that smile she’ll never get tired of, not if she lives to be a hundred.

 

 

                        *                                    *                                    *

 

 

Three weeks after school starts, Barbara Wallace calls Annie a slut to her face, and Angie Olsen asks all fake-sweet when the wedding is, and all of a sudden no one wants to sit near her at lunch.

 

Not even Alex.  She spots him at the other end of the lunchroom, in the middle of a group of hockey players.  They’re all laughing about something, but Alex just has his head down over his plate, hair tumbling over his eyes, steadily eating his lunch.

 

She’s not afraid of Alex, but she’s damned if she’ll give anyone the satisfaction of making a scene in front of half the school, so she sits tight, pretending she doesn’t look like a fool eating lunch by herself while her boyfriend acts like she doesn’t exist.  On her way out of the lunchroom, she passes by his table without looking at him.  She hears his friends laughing behind her, but she doesn’t twitch an eyelash.  As she’s walking out the door, she thinks maybe she hears her name, but she doesn’t turn around.

 

Someone’s decorated her locker with the word SLUT in permanent marker.  For some reason, that’s the thing that makes her break down and cry.

 

The next morning, she puts on her best scowl and marches into school as though she’s the only person there.  Refuses to hear or see anyone except the teachers.

 

Until recess, when she steps out into the school yard for a cigarette and the first thing she sees is Alex punching one of his hockey buddies in the jaw.  A second later, he’s surrounded by three guys, and Alex looks to fight as well as he wrestles steer, but three on one is no kind of odds.

 

Annie catches the closest jock by surprise, sinking her nails into his arm and kicking him in the back of the knee.  She ducks under his fist as he swings around, and manages to get in a couple of solid hits on him and scratch up his face before he gets a good hold on her and throws her down on her ass in the hard dirt.  With the wind knocked out of her, she’s struggling to get to her feet when Mr. MacKenzie comes storming down the back steps like a tornado, bellowing at the boys to break it up.  He wades in, grabbing shirts and shoving the boys apart—he’s a head shorter than any of them, but broad and strong, and besides, they’re not dumb enough to hit a teacher.

 

“Principal’s office, now.  All of you.”

 

Alex levers himself up off the ground, wiping the blood off his face.  Comes over and offers Annie a hand up, but he winces when she takes it.

 

“You all right?” he asks.

 

“Fine,” she says. 

 

“Are you sure?”  His hands move like they want to circle her waist, but they don’t reach for her.

 

“You’re the one who’s bleeding.”

 

He shrugs.  Side by side, they trail into the building after the others.

 

“Were you ever going to tell me?”  Alex asks.

 

“Tell you what?”

 

“It’s all over school that you’re—” he stumbles over the word, “—pregnant.”

 

“It’s all over school that I’m a slut,” Annie counters.

 

Alex shrugs.  “Know that’s not true.  You telling me it’s all a lie?”

 

She shakes her head.

 

“So how come I heard it from Jack Peterson before I heard it from you?”

 

All she can do is shake her head again.  “I’m sorry.”

 

He touches her hair; she lets him.  But he only has time to whisper, “It’ll be okay,” before the principal calls him in.

 

It isn’t okay; there’s no way to make it okay.  When it’s Annie’s turn in his office, Mr. Rutherford talks in circles until Annie spits the word _pregnant_ across his desk—not like they don’t both know what he’s talking about.  He lectures her about wild, irresponsible behavior (without naming any specific acts) and tells her maybe she’d better take the rest of the year off from school.

 

“Am I expelled?” she asks.

 

“Now, Annie, no one’s punishing you.  I just think you’ll find it easier to take a year off, don’t you?”

 

“Am I expelled?”

 

“Why don’t you try to be reasonable about this?  There’s no need to upset your parents more than they undoubtedly already are.”

 

“If you don’t want me coming to school, you’ll have to kick me out.”

 

Which, after some more beating around the bush, he does.

 

Alex is waiting for her outside the office; he follows her out of the building and lowers himself gently down beside her on the front steps.

 

“Don’t worry,” he tells her.  “It’ll be okay.  My parents will love you.  Well, you have to ignore Dad, he’ll be an asshole about it, but Mom will love you, and he’ll come around, he’ll have to, a grandchild.  We’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

 

His face is as open as always; she doesn’t see anything but tenderness in his eyes.  But his split lip is starting to swell and there’s a bruise darkening on his cheekbone, and those guys were his _friends._

 

So she takes a deep breath and looks into his blue eyes and tells him, “No.”

 

“What?”  He blinks at her like she just said something in a foreign language.  Then dismay crinkles his eyebrows.  “Oh, you think—I meant, we’d get married, I’m sorry, I didn’t even say that, I’m being a jerk, but I want to marry you, honestly, I wanted to marry you already, but we’re so young it would have been crazy to say so.” 

 

He takes her hand between his, his cheeks flushed, his eyes still earnestly locked on hers.  “But please, Annie, marry me.  You want me to ask you on my knees?”

 

“No,” she repeats.  “I won’t marry you.  I won’t go home to your parents’ house with you.”

 

He shakes his head, not angry, not hurt, just bewildered.  “I don’t understand,” he says, finally.

 

“It’s very simple.  We’re not getting married.”

 

“But you’re—“

 

She wants to hit him, or cry.  Or curl up and sleep for a year.  She looks him in the face and says, slowly and clearly, like she’s explaining it to a toddler: “I’m having a baby, and we’re not getting married.”

 

She watches that sink in, hurt rolling over his face like thunderclouds before a summer storm.  She’s more than half expecting the next words out of his mouth to be _Is it mine?_

 

But all he says is, “Why not?”

 

She doesn’t want to have the argument.  She doesn’t know how to find the words to make Alex _hear_ her, really hear and understand.  And she’s not sure she’s got the stamina to outlast him if she lets him start talking. He’d wear her down, and she can’t let him to that.

 

“Because I don’t want to marry you,” she says, as blunt and hard as she can.

 

If anyone else had put that look of pain on Sasha’s face, Annie would break their teeth.  Instead, she just keeps looking into his hurt, confused eyes until he turns his face away.  He strokes his thumb along the swollen side of his mouth.

 

She’d walk away, but her mother’s coming to get her, and besides, if she stands up, Alex will see she’s trembling.

 

After a long, long time, Alex says, “I’ll keep on asking you.”

 

“No, you won’t,” she says.

 

He turns back to look at her.  “You think I can’t be as stubborn as you?”

 

“If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll tell everyone in town that you forced me.”

 

For a second, she thinks he’s going to hit her.  But he pushes himself to his feet, jams his fists in his jeans pockets and strides down the steps, out of the schoolyard, down the dusty road.  Gone.

 

 

                        *                                    *                                    *

 

 

But that isn’t the end of it.  She should have expected Alex wouldn’t give up so easy.

 

She’s as big as a cow and starting to count the days when he shows up on her front porch. 

 

She doesn’t ask him in, so they stand there looking at each other across two feet of planking, Annie in the doorway, Alex with his boots on the top step and his hands clutched around the railing.

 

“You doing okay?” he asks.  “You need anything, or. . .anything?”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

He kicks at the step for a bit before finally coming out with, “You scared?”

 

“I’m fine,” she snaps, and his eyes come up to meet hers.  He’s not fooled.  But he doesn’t call her on it, either.

 

“You want something, spit it out,” she says, when the silence has gone on too long and her hands are starting to shake with the desire to touch him.  “Otherwise, go home.  I got things to do.”

 

“Annie. . .”  His hands come off the railing and spread out in a pleading gesture.  “I don’t know what I did to make you so angry.  I know you blame me, and you’re not wrong, but—”

 

“Don’t be a jackass.  I don’t blame you for anything.  Just don’t want to—”  She can’t spit the words out, but Alex is nothing if not patient, and he waits her out.

 

“Don’t want to marry you,” she whispers.

 

“Yeah, I got that,” he says.  “I just don’t understand why.  Unless. . .are you planning to. . .give it up?  The baby?”

 

Annie shakes her head.  Hearing that word out of his mouth has her insides scrambled up to the point where she’s not sure she’d be able to talk.

 

“Then why?  How come you hate me so much you’d rather raise him without money, a home of your own—”

 

“You don’t have those to give me.” 

 

Alex flinches like she just spat in his face, but doesn’t let it stop him.  “Without someone to help you—without a _father._ ”  He stumbles a little over the word, but his voice gets stronger, harsher as he goes on.  “You’d rather have everyone in town looking down their noses at you?  You’d rather let them spit on your— _our_ child ‘cause he doesn’t have a daddy, than let me near you?”

 

“They’d talk behind our backs if we got married, too.”  It’s all she can do to keep her voice from trembling, but she does it.  “But you don’t have to worry about it.  It’s my problem, not yours.  You’re free.”

 

Alex spits over his shoulder.  “Yeah, everyone loves a guy who gets his girlfriend pregnant and then dumps her.  Thanks for saving my reputation.”

 

The baby’s poking at her innards, but everything else inside her has turned to ice.  “I thought we didn’t care what other people think about us.”

 

He shakes his head.  “I don’t.  I want to marry you and I don’t care what shit I have to take from my parents or anyone else about it.  You’re the one who doesn’t. . .”

 

“I don’t want to be stuck in your parents’ house the day you start to hate me,” she says.  “I don’t want to be the thing you gave up your dreams for.  I’ve seen that movie, and it doesn’t end pretty.”

 

Alex opens his mouth, then shuts it.  He turns to look out at the pink-orange remains of the sunset.  His profile is mostly in shadow, but she can see him blink several times quick.

 

When he looks at her again, she can barely see his face at all because of the light behind him.  She’s grateful for that.  She doesn’t need to see his eyes right now.

 

“Okay,” he says, real soft and fighting hard for steady.  “You do what you want, Annie.  But I’ll always love you.”

 

He’s off the porch and gone before she can say anything.  Not like there’s anything much she could say.

 

 

                        *                                    *                                    *

 

 

It hurts.

 

It hurts in ways she’s never imagined.

 

Her mother holds her hand.  Strokes her hair when Annie screams. 

 

(She wasn’t going to make a sound, she wasn’t.  She wasn’t going to cry.  She doesn’t remember why.  She doesn’t remember thinking or wanting anything, she’s only ever been _here_ , panting and pushing and ripping herself in half, split like a tree in a lightning storm.)

 

She clutches the hard hand in hers.

 

(It doesn’t feel right: too small, too thin, too cold.  Alex’s hands are hot and callused and big enough to swallow Annie’s.  But the hand on her hair is gentle enough to be his.)

 

She doesn’t feel the tears leaking out of her.  All she feels is the lightning.

 

( _Of course I’m here.  Where else would I ever want to be?_ )

 

When the storm is over, she lies breathing among the pillows with a baby—with her son—snuggled between her breasts.  Her mother watches over her from a chair nearby.  She turns her face to the wall and lets her eyes drift closed.

 

 

                        *                                    *                                    *

 

 

She never asks if Alex has come to visit.  She tells herself she’s not waiting for him, she’s not expecting him, she doesn’t even want to see him.  She’d only have to send him away again, and she’s so tired, she’s not sure whether she’d be able to dig up the strength to win that fight a third time.  But at night when she lies in the hospital bed trying to fall asleep, she can’t keep the thought out: _What kind of man doesn’t even want to see his son?_

 

Her third day in the hospital, the nurse wakes her up from an afternoon doze to tell her she has a visitor.  Annie’s not expecting anyone right then and the nurse is looking at her funny, and suddenly Annie’s heart starts hammering, because it’s Alex, of course it is, of course he’s come.

 

But it isn’t him.  It’s a stout, round-faced, middle-aged woman who stands awkwardly in the doorway, just looking at Annie in her hospital bed with a weird pinched expression.  Alex’s mother, she realizes after what seems like a long time of the two of them just staring at each other.

 

“Sasha has gone away,” says Mrs. Bresnyachuk.  “Because of you.”

 

“Where?”  It isn’t any of the questions she wants to ask.

 

“To find work.  He is a good boy, a good man.  He takes care of his responsibilities.  He will provide for his son.”

 

“We’re not his responsibility,” says Annie.  “I told Alex that.”

 

“His _son_ ,” Mrs. Bresnyachuk repeats.  And maybe Annie should argue, but she’s not going to deny that.

 

Mrs. Bresnyachuk apparently decides that she’s been invited in; she comes over to Annie’s bedside and sets down a couple of Tupperware containers on the table.

 

“You need to eat,” she says.  “For your strength, to make milk.  Hospital food, psh, garbage.”

 

Annie’s going home the next day and her mother cooks perfectly good food, but there’s no call to be rude to Alex’s mother for trying to be nice to her.

 

“Thank you,” she says.  “It looks wonderful.”

 

But Mrs. Bresnyachuk doesn’t smile.  She’s looking at the bassinette on the far side of Annie’s bed.

 

“Sasha’s room is not the largest, but the light is beautiful in the morning, and the breeze comes in in summer.  There is room for a crib, at the foot of the bed.  You will like it, I think.”

 

“I’m not—”  Annie takes a breath and tries to remember how to be polite.  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bresnyachuk, I think there’s been a misunderstanding.  I’m not marrying Alex.”

 

Mrs. Bresnyachuk frowns.  “Sasha told me he was going to take care of you. You are the mother of his son.  He will do the right thing.”

 

 _Did he not tell her he proposed?_ Annie seriously considers not telling her.  If she knew what Alex would want her to say, she’d be tempted to do the opposite.  Let all the Bresnyachuks make each other miserable, maybe they’d let her alone.  But there’s the boxes of food on the table, and Mrs. Bresnyachuk looks as tired as Annie feels.

 

“Alex asked me to marry him,” she says.  “I said no.  So you see, he really doesn’t owe us anything.  You don’t.”  Though in the back of her mind she can’t help thinking about how much it will cost to have a baby in the house, and what kind of work she’ll ever be able to get to bring in some extra money, and how much easier it would be if someone else were bringing home regular pay. . .

 

“We will take care of our grandson,” she says.  “You. . .don’t have to live with us, if you prefer.”

 

“You’re not taking him!”  Annie blurts out.  “He’s my baby.  You can’t just. . . _have_ him, he’s not _yours._ ”

 

She goes hot all over with embarrassment the second the words are out of her mouth.  _Stupid, of course she wasn’t threatening to_ steal _him, don’t be an idiot._   She doesn’t grab Benny and clutch him to her chest, although her body is quivering to do it.  She doesn’t move.

 

Mrs. Bresnyachuk just stands there looking at her.  Not horrified, not shocked.  It’s hard to tell what she is, from her lack of expression.

 

“I have raised three sons,” she says.

 

“So has my mom,” snaps Annie.  “Well, kids.  Including me.  We don’t need your help.”

 

Mrs. Bresnyachuk’s stern face suddenly crumples; Annie’s afraid the woman’s going to start crying.  Annie’s still shaking with shock and anger, but now she’s got a funny feeling in her stomach, because all of a sudden she can see how Alex’s mother looks like him.  Pain looks the same on both of them.

 

Mrs. Bresnyachuk turns her back to Annie for just a second or two; when she turns around again, her face is back under control.

 

“I have no daughters,” she says.  “No—no other grandchildren.  Sasha’s wife, his child.  I wanted—well.”  She shakes her head.

 

“I’m sorry,” Annie says.  And she is.

 

“He’s a good boy.”

 

“He is,” Annie agrees.

 

Mrs. Bresnyachuk smoothes her dress down and looks vaguely around the room, like she’s getting ready to leave.  But she doesn’t move, and her eyes drift back to the bassinette like she’s being pulled by a magnet.

 

Annie waits.

 

Mrs. Bresnyachuk’s mouth works like she’s chewing something nasty, but when she finally gets the words out, her voice is surprisingly gentle.  “May I. . .see him?”

 

Annie leans over and scoops Benny out of the bassinette.  The movement wakes him up; he snuffles and smacks his lips and stares up at her, and for a second, everything else is overwhelmed by a rush of love for him.  She kisses his head, smiling.

 

She looks up and meets Mrs. Bresnyachuk’s sad, blue eyes and holds out the baby to her.

 

She watches Sasha’s mother cuddle her grandson, her weathered face crinkling up in a smile, murmuring baby-talk in a mixture of English and Ukrainian.  For a minute, she lets herself picture herself sitting at an unfamiliar kitchen table, with Benny in her lap, shelling peas while Benny’s Grandma works at the stove.  Pictures Sasha coming in from the field, sweaty and grimy, face lit up with his rare grin. . .

 

She takes a deep breath, tucks the image away down in a bottom drawer at the back of her mind, and holds out her arms for her son.

 

 


End file.
